


Not Again

by CC99trialanderrorgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: As usual Bucky is kind of a hot mess who swears wayyy too much and owns way too many guns, Blushing Bucky Barnes, Bucky has to GO man, Bucky pees his pants, Bucky's ridiculous weapons arsenal, Bucky's weird taste in pajamas, Control, Desperation, Embarrassed Bucky, Grumpy Bucky Barnes, Hotel Rooms, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, LITERALLY, M/M, Modern Setting, Omorashi, Pants wetting, Shower Sex, Steve is still Captain America, Steve kinda likes it, Swearing, Watersports, Wetting, assassin!Bucky, couch vaulting, like Bucky swears a lot, mentions of Irish Catholic God, pee desperation, skinny jeans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC99trialanderrorgirl/pseuds/CC99trialanderrorgirl
Summary: Assassin!Bucky accidentally wets his pants in front of his boyfriend. His life devolves from there.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 129





	Not Again

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy Bucky, I'm so sorry, what have I done to you?

Bucky hits the hotel hallway at a run. He’s 300 feet forward and flashing the keycard at the hotel room door in less than 7 seconds. He’s halfway through the living room in .5 before he skids to a halt. Steve is standing by the couch, a bowl of cereal in his hand, a spoonful poised in midair, halfway to his mouth. He’s wearing soft gray sleep pants and a tight white undershirt. His hair is a mess, like he’d just woken up from a nap. And _fuck_ , Bucky can’t do this.

He’s shaking.

He played sniper for seven fucking hours last night. Drank five coffees to stay awake during the aftermath, because it’s a bitch to do that after the adrenaline wears off and it took SHIELD Two. Fucking. Hours. to break down the scene after he did them a huge, very anonymous favor by calling it the fuck in. He’s wearing skin-tight black jeans, black combat boots, a black long-sleeved shirt, and about 15 weapons on his person right now.

And he’s going to fucking piss his pants in the next thirty seconds, _Jesus fuck_.

Why is Steve here?

And why won’t he _move_?

Bucky had lost the mask, tac vest, and sniper rifle at one of his hidden drop sites on the way back. And there’s another thirty minutes he’s really fucking regretting right now. Why the fuck didn’t he stop to take a piss then? Oh right, because cops and security and paranoia and _fuck_. It was the right call, but damn is he regretting it now.

Fuck, he’s _shaking_.

“Bucky, you okay?” Steve says the words tentatively, like he’s worried Bucky somehow got triggered back into the Winter Soldier.

 _What I would give right now to lack the capacity for embarrassment at a cognitive level, God,_ he thinks.

“I –” Bucky starts to speak, but realizes very quickly that nope, time has run out. Apparently 11 hours and five coffees is his fucking _limit._

 _Fuck,_ he’d really prefer to have gotten out of this with some level of dignity involved. He is literally the greatest assassin who has ever lived. He is never _not_ in control of a situation. _How_ is this happening to him right now?

“Listen, Buck, if you need –” Steve starts, but Bucky isn’t there to hear the rest. Nope, he’s sprinting at the bathroom door like his life depends on it (and the dignity of his life very much fucking _does_ , thank you), vaulting over the love seat one-armed, and slamming the door behind him.

Unfortunately, he slams it a little too hard, the locking mechanism basically disintegrates, and the door just swings right back open again. And then Steve, fucking martyr-hero-doesn’t-know-what’s-good-for-him _Steve_ , is walking in behind him, completely blocking Bucky’s one reasonable exit. And he’s been trying so hard lately to be reasonable. Please don’t make him do something unreasonable, Steve, _please_. Because hello, he’s the Winter Soldier. He can _make_ an exit pretty much anywhere he wants, from shimmying up and out through the ventilation shaft to ripping a damn hole in the drywall.

But unfortunately, that kind of show would involve him exerting strength, which would lead to _pressure_ , and that…well that just isn’t going to fucking work right now.

So door it is.

Except Steve is standing in the doorway like a goddamn fucking tank.

 _Jesus_.

“Move,” Bucky says, his tone low and menacing and bordering on desperate.

“Nope,” Steve says calmly, popping the “p” and crossing his arms for emphasis.

Holy shit, his boyfriend’s arms are so _big._ He is not going to piss himself in front of said hot boyfriend.

He’s not.

He’s _not,_ damn it.

Oh, Jesus Christ, he _is._

“Steve, I am _begging_ you, _get the fuck out_.” Bucky is pleading openly now. That’s as nicely as he is genetically capable of saying it. _Fuck, Steve, please don’t be your willful bastard self. Just this once, listen to me, don’t put up a fight, just -_

“ _Please_.”

He says it, once.

His voice cracks.

He can’t look at Steve.

“Bucky, what –”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Steve,” Bucky screams as he steps into the tub, “ _get out_!”

Steve doesn’t move.

“FUCK!” Bucky roars, because this is painful, and unfair, and just, _fuck_. He’s pissing his pants. His black skinny jeans are soaked already. He can feel it coursing down his thighs, pooling in his boots. _Fuck_ , he loves these boots. And they were so _expensive_. And, okay, he's full as _fuck_ , and this isn’t going to be over anytime soon. _Damn it_.

He’s shaking.

He can _tell_ Steve is still there.

Slowly, he brings his trembling hands up and covers his face. His cheeks are burning hot against both metal _and_ skin.

He’s never pissed so much in his life.

The relief is amazing.

The shame? Not so much.

 _Why_ is Steve still _here_?

He keeps pissing; couldn’t stop it if he tried.

(And goddamn, did he _try_. He _tried_ for eleven fucking _hours.)_

Finally, _finally_ , it stops.

He sighs when he finishes, and then, unexpectedly, almost collapses. He catches himself, though, and manages to sink to the ground in a semi-controlled drop. Like, yes, of course, he _meant_ to do that. He ruins the effect when he immediately brings both knees up and tucks his face into them, wrapping his arms around himself for good measure.

He’s soaked through now, literally curled up in a ball in a puddle of his own piss. He smells disgusting, all sweat and urine and gun oil and grime.

Dimly, he’s aware of the fact that at some point, he must have cried, because his face is wet and it’s harder to breathe through his nose than it was before.

Fuck, Steve is never going to come near him again.

There’s a weird keening noise in the room, and normally, Bucky’s brain would be running automatic assessments like where, when, how, and why. But right now, he’s just numb. Spent. Turned off.

God, why did Steve have to fucking witness that? Why couldn’t he have been where he was supposed to have been, which was Avengers Tower until 7pm?

But no, that’s just not Bucky’s luck. Of course, Steve Rogers, the perfectly in control Star Spangled Man with a Plan, had to be here to witness James fucking Buchanan Barnes _literally_ piss himself after a ridiculously long sniper mission and way, _way_ too much fucking coffee.

The worst part? It’s happened before. Sniper perches do not make for spacious accommodations, generally. He’s had no choice a time or two. (Or more like twenty.) But those were somehow more conscious choices, just something shitty about being in the field. Plus, he’d been brainwashed, single-minded, and _there had been no witnesses_.

God, he misses being the Asset sometimes. Like, whenever he gets angry and wishes it was socially acceptable to just up and murder someone for taking too long in the Starbucks line. Like, the Winter Soldier would not have cared about something as trival as the unspoken social contract. Or when he’s sparring and he sees the opening and he can’t take it without killing his opponent but he wants to because he wants to _win_. Or, you know, _right now,_ for instance.

Steve is still there.

He hasn’t spoken.

Bucky is _dying_.

And he’s really, really fucking wet.

He chances a subtle head lift, careful to keep the curtain of his unbound hair between himself and Steve.

For all intents and purposes, Steve hasn’t moved an inch.

Bucky isn’t sure how to deal with this. There is no manual for this situation. Seriously. He has been given a lot of protocols for various scenarios over the years. But there was no Hydra manual for “Asset has just pissed his super expensive, fucking _favorite_ black skinny jeans in front of his boyfriend, who, by the way, is Captain Fucking America.”

Fuuuuuck his life.

Bucky groans.

This seems to get a reaction out of Steve, who finally stirs and adjusts his position to casually leaning against the doorjamb, huge fucking arms still crossed.

“Buck?” Steve asks, presently. His tone is impossible to read.

 _Oh God, he’s going to break up with me_ , Bucky thinks.

“Yeah?” He says, and _fuck_ his voice sounds so small and wrecked. His brain makes the oh-so-helpful connection that the strange keening noise from before had been coming from _him_. Oh joy, more embarrassment. Just what he fucking needs.

“Are you, uh, okay?” Steve forms the question awkwardly.

Bucky lifts his head completely at that and just _stares_ at Steve. What. An. Idiot.

“I just pissed my pants in front of my boyfriend. And you’re asking me if I am _okay_?”

 _Roll back the tone there, Barnes_ , he tells himself. _Steve is trying to help_. _Incorrectly – but he’s trying. So tone it the fuck down_.

“Yes?” Steve asks, somehow undeterred. _How_? Bucky wonders, for about the millionth time where Steve Rogers is concerned. He decides to answer truthfully.

“Well, my bladder feels about 30 pounds lighter but the rest of me is mortified beyond belief and I feel like a fucking newbie _joke_ for thinking I could drink that many coffees on a sniper job, plus I ruined my favorite sexy jeans and these boots cost literally $300, but other than that, just dandy, Steve. Totally _fine_.”

 _Little off there on the tone recalibration, Barnes_ , he thinks. _Oops_.

Well sue him, he’s stressed as fuck right now. He’d like to see anyone else in this situation do better. Anybody? Yeah, he didn’t fucking think so.

Steve doesn’t say anything for long minutes.

 _This is getting gross as fuck_ , Bucky thinks. He’s literally sitting in a puddle of his own piss. Time to brush it off. _Channel the soldier, channel the soldier_ , he thinks. Like if he chants it enough times in his head, it might burn away the shame that clings to his cheeks.

“Okay, I’m gonna shower,” he says, his tone playing it off like it’s nothing. He stands up and starts methodically removing his clothes and gear.

Goddamn, he’s glad he only carries water-resistant ordinance. _I’ll give you that one_ , he thinks _. Thanks, HYDRA._

There’s a ripping sound like pieces of Velco separating, and then four knives, two grenades, and three guns hit the floor along with his shirt. Everything else he’s got on him is either strapped on underneath the pants or in his waterlogged boots. Damn, getting the pants off is gonna be a bitch. It’s hard enough when they’re _dry_. He starts with the boots instead, leaning down in one fluid motion to unlace them.

Three more knives, two guns, and four bundles of thin wire join the pile. He straightens up again, brushes the hair out of his face, and toes off one boot and then the other. He glances at Steve, thinks, _fuck it_ (like _anything_ could make this any worse at this point), and upends both boots. A not insignificant amount of liquid spills out and snakes its way toward the drain.

If he weren’t resolutely thinking, _Asset, Soldier, Asset, Soldier_ right now, Bucky is pretty sure that’s the moment when he would have literally died of embarrassment.

He straightens up again, not bothering to adjust his hair this time, and his hands hover over his fly.

“Oh,” Steve says, realizing that Bucky probably really, _really_ doesn’t want an audience for the process of peeling his piss-soaked, skin-tight jeans off his sweaty body.

“Right, sorry for um… _sorry_.” And Steve goes.

 _Thank fuck,_ Bucky thinks, and yanks the curtain closed. He turns on the shower without stripping out of his jeans, just letting the cool water wash away the worst of the mess. Then he sits down on the shower floor and carefully removes his pants, peeling them off one painstaking inch at a time.

By the time he’s naked and soaping up, he has to piss again. He doesn’t even think about it, he just goes while both his hands are in his hair, trying to work in some frizz-reducing conditioner. It feels weirdly good.

He comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, wrapped in a towel with a pile of wet clothes and gear in his arms. He doesn’t look at Steve.

He just disappears into the spare bedroom he’s been using as a storeroom and shuts the door, tight and firm.

Steve doesn’t knock or try to follow him.

Bucky is grateful as all hell.

He pulls on a clean pair of black, blessedly dry boxers patterned with the green HYDRA insignia. They were an (insensitive) gag gift from Tony, and Steve had almost had a coronary when he saw them, but honestly, Bucky kind of likes them. They remind him of where he came from, and what he’s capable of: namely, _surviving,_ and a whole lot of violence. He grabs a hair tie from one of the black duffle bags on the bed and pulls his hair up into a messy ponytail. Then he sets himself up at the little table and starts disassembling and cleaning his weapons. It’s careful, methodical work, and it calms him. Taking care of his arsenal is like a form of meditation for him.

He finishes around 3am, and lets himself fall asleep on the suitcase-strewn bed. He can’t quite face seeing Steve yet.

Bucky takes three more jobs over the next 10 days. He doesn’t piss himself during or after a single one.

He thinks this counts as some sort of victory.

Then again, he’s also started avoiding coffee. Which, damn it – he really _likes_ 21stcentury coffee. Starbucks frappucinos are a revelation. But, his bladder does not agree. So no coffee.

Certainly not on missions.

Possibly none at all, ever again.

He doesn’t really see Steve until the final job wraps up. He walks calmly into their suite at 6pm. Steve is once again standing around eating cereal. Bucky does not shake, scream, or vault a couch in his desperation to get into their shared bathroom.

He just walks calmly to the door of the second bedroom, deposits his extra gear there, and then slowly, in a controlled and totally normal human adult way, makes his way to the bathroom, closes the door, and pisses.

When he comes out again, Steve seems weirdly disappointed.

Bucky does not really get it.

Was Steve _hoping_ for a return of the barely-in-control, basically incontinent boyfriend of last week?

 _The fuck, Rogers?_ he thinks, and grabs clean clothes so he can take a shower.

They sleep in the same bed that night.

Mostly because Bucky has run out of excuses.

He may or may not refuse to drink anything for at least three hours before they bunk down for the night.

Somehow, he still wakes up practically pissing his sleep pants (they have little white sniper rifles printed all over them. Bucky _loves_ them. He wills his body not to piss in them, lest they go the way of the jeans. He washed them three times, but somehow they were never quite the _same._ The boots were even more of a loss).

 _Do not pee, body,_ he thinks. _Fuckin’ don’t._

He moves to get up, but finds, to his extreme chagrin and not a small amount of panic, that he can’t.

Fucking Steve is dead to the world, but he’s got one giant (fucking _heavy)_ forearm thrown right across Bucky’s abdomen. Okay, _low_ on Bucky’s abdomen. Like, in a place where Bucky does _not_ need any additional pressure, thanks very much.

Steve snuffles in his sleep and presses down harder.

Bucky’s insides convulse, and he has to swallow a gasp.

 _Goddamnit_ , _Steve_ , he thinks viciously. He could unseat Steve a million different ways. But 99 percent of them are violent, and the other 1 percent wouldn’t guarantee that Steve wouldn’t wake up.

Which, Steve _needs_ to stay asleep.

Bucky is a _little_ bit afraid of a repeat of a the other week, okay?

Steve presses harder, muscle mass and super-soldier strength giving it some real _oomph_.

Fuck, a little bit of piss just ended up in Bucky’s awesome geometric black-on-black boxer shorts. _Not_ acceptable.

He clenches every muscle in his body and prays to Irish Catholic God to please, _please_ just do this one thing for him, just this one time. Like, _please_.

He doesn’t think Irish Catholic God is going to listen.

Steve shifts.

A little more ends up in his boxers.

He fucking _prays_.

_Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, please, Irish Catholic Deity of my youth, please keep it in my bladder and not in this bed where my boyfriend lies, please, Jesus, God, I’m begging. Just-_

Ahh.  
It’s not going to work.

God doesn’t take his calls anymore.

Not after all he’s done, and continues to do.

 _Why_ didn’t he hang up his sniper rifles and just join the Avengers full-time when fucking Nick Fury asked? _Why_ didn’t he donate his gear to NATO or some shit like that and like, take up alpaca farming in Iowa? Done something, _anything_ , else. _Why_?

If he had, maybe God would care about his plight right now.

As it is, even he can’t argue with the logic that he probably deserves this, karma-wise, for all the lives he’s taken, both under HYDRA’s control and now, as a for-hire assassin.

 _Listen, I vet all my jobs,_ he thinks, desperately. _I only kill bad guys, like, 99% of the time. Does that count for nothing, Irish Catholic God? My mother prayed to you on my behalf! Does that not count anymore?_

Apparently it doesn’t, because his body gives one last internal spasm of doom, and Steve’s arm presses down particularly viciously, and fuck, that’s it. He’s pissing the bed and oh _fuck_ no, his awesome sniper sleep pants are getting ruined at this very moment and Steve is waking up next to him and sticking his hand in it and –

Wait.

What the fuck?

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve says quietly. “I just…had to see.”

“I. Um. _What_?”

Bucky is pissing, his mind is floating off in a thousand different directions, and Steve Fucking Rogers is lifting the blankets and sitting back to _Watch_. _Him. Piss. Himself._

For the second time in as many weeks.

What is his _life_?

The stream trickles to a stop, and goddamn that is a _relief_ , but Bucky remains frozen.

“Sorry,” Steve says again, and he looks like he means it. The contrite look on his face is somewhat infuriating given what brazen bullshit he just pulled. Bucky feels the Winter Soldier in him rear up, but pushes him back down.

He’s not going to kill Steve.

He might _want_ to kill him.

But he isn’t _going_ to kill him.

 _Chill, brain_ , he thinks. _It’s just pee_.

And then he fucking bursts out laughing. It’s his old laugh, from before the war and everything that followed. It’s charming, full-bellied, and deep. It’s 1940-Brooklyn-swagger, cold-nights-and-warm-beer, dancing-with-girls-but-watching-Steve, sketches-at-midnight, desperately-longing-and-full-of-love, it’s _his_ laugh.

Well, fuck, that hasn’t come out in a long time.

Not a lot of time for assassins to laugh. Goes with the territory. Practically part of the job description.

He can’t stop.

When he finally comes down from it, Steve just looks lost.

Bucky just laughs again.

Something in him has snapped, broken free, or, dare he say it? _Repaired_.

He just…doesn’t care.

Steve wants to play it kinky? Okay. Sure. He can work with that.

“Fuck me in the shower?” he asks as he throws off the remaining covers and stands, dripping in his ruined pj’s. (He’s still a little pissed about those, truth be told. Maybe they can be saved in the wash, though. Cotton is a lighter gauge than denim. Maybe it makes a difference?)

He smirks.

Runs one hand through his hair, rakish and charming.

He stares at Steve.

“I…Uh..Yeah, okay,” Steve answers.

Bucky smirks wider.

Steve finds him not five minutes later. He’s standing naked under the spray, facing the tiles, ass stuck out, left hand already slip-sliding over his hardened cock.

He looks back over his shoulder, jiggles his pert ass, and drawls, “Don’t got all day. Get in me, soldier.”

He winks, saucy and sure of himself again.

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve breathes, and joins him.

Bucky’s a screaming mess by the time it’s over, and Steve isn’t nearly as put together as he’d like people to think he is when he’s being all super serious and responsible as Captain America. Right now, in this shower, it’s just Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, no personas to be found.

Bucky thinks he might like it best that way.

Afterwards, they cuddle in the spare bed, gear bags dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. (Bucky made sure to relocate all the delicate contents carefully before said dumping occurred, and so his arsenal is currently neatly spread out across the desk and the table.)

Bucky’s head is pillowed on Steve’s strong arm when Steve says it.

“You’re always so in control. It’s almost inhuman.”

Bucky makes an angry, indignant noise at that, so Steve quickly explains.

“It’s not that that isn’t sexy, or that I don’t love that side of you. I do. God help me, probably way more than I should. The way you look with that mask, the way you handle the knives and guns so _effortlessly_ –”

He stops himself, backtracks.

“It’s hot, okay? Really hot. But sometimes I just want to, I don’t know, crack the façade. You know what I mean?”

Bucky hums a non-committal sound of approval. Because yeah, he _does_ , but he also wants to hear the rest of what Steve has to say.

“So when you came racing in here, all out of breath the other day-”

“Hang on,” Bucky interrupts. “I was _not_ out of breath. I am _never_ out of breath. I am –”

Steve huffs and cuts him off, chuckling. Bucky stares at him balefully, eyes dark, but Steve just soldiers on as if Bucky can’t intimidate him

“Buck,” he says, “you were practically _hyperventilating_ , eyes all wild. Hell, you were _shaking_. I couldn’t figure out why until you did…that.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to smirk.

“And _that_ did something for you, did it, Rogers?” Bucky asks, teasing.

This time, it’s Steve who hides his face.

“Maybe,” he says, embarrassed. “So what if it did?”

Bucky practically crows.

“Then I would submit to the jury incontrovertible evidence that Steve Rogers is more kinky and less boring than anyone who isn’t me would have ever believed,” he says.

“So you’re not mad?” Steve asks.

“That you woke up at the _worst_ possible moment and decided to profit from what you had every reason to assume was a _very_ embarrassing situation for me?” Bucky asks, playing it up. For one moment, Steve looks stricken. Then Bucky smiles.

“Nah,” he replies, “You fucked that right out of me.”

“Okay, good. Uh, thanks,” Steve adds awkwardly.

They lapse into silence for a bit.

When he can see that Steve is just about to fall asleep, Bucky speaks, careful to keep his tone light, friendly.

“But just so you know, Rogers, that little statement of yours goes both ways. I want to see you lose control, too you know. You’re too damn perfect for your own good. So I guess what I’m saying is…”

He lowers his voice, speaks with the Winter Soldier growl that he knows terrifies pretty much everyone, and hisses, “ _Watch your back, buddy_.”

Steve grins, sleepily fakes a salute, and goes, “Sir, yes, sir!”

Bucky can feel him getting hard against his hip.

“Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ,” he quips, eyes gleaming.

“It already is, _Sergeant, _” Steve says meaningfully, and drags his boyfriend on top of him in the waning light.__

____

__

____


End file.
